Page 29 of Tattered Edges

I rang the buzzer to Rory’s flat, hoping he didn’t leave me outside for long. I hadn’t bothered with a coat, much like I hadn’t the previous morning in the midst of my emergency.

To my relief, I only had to ring once before I heard footsteps descending the stairs. When he opened the door, the sight of him in a Manchester United shirt was simultaneously very weird and incredibly cool.

Weird because Victoria had been right—Rory seemed all business and no play, but his shirt implied play.

Cool because Graham seemed to have been right, as well—Rory was obviously a loyal fan.

The logo on the front of the shirt was my clue that he’d been a fan for a long time. SHARP was the sponsor for the club ages ago, back when they were really great. Back before I even knew they existed.

“Hi. Nice shirt. Also, I brought snacks,” I said in greeting.

He studied me for a few seconds with his signature scowl, and I thought for a moment he might change his mind about letting me come upstairs. Finally, he replied, “Just so we’re clear, if you call itsoccerI’m kicking you out.”

I shrugged playfully, appreciative of his banter, and more than ready with a quick rebuttal. “No promises. If it slips, you really only have the English to blame.You’rethe ones who came up with the term. Did you know that? Back in, like, eighteen-hundred-something. It made it from Oxford to America and then stuck. It’s not our fault you guys decided to revert back exclusively to football.”

His scowl softened and I’d earned a hint of a smirk before he nodded inside. “Come on, then.”

He led the way up the stairs to the third floor, opening his front door and signaling I make my entrance ahead of him. As I crossed the threshold, before I could take in a single detail, I heard the happy squeal of a toddler as she made a run for it. Her little feet clapped against the hardwood floors, her hands thrown over her head as she went. Her squeal was followed by the playful growl of her father, who chased after her, making her giggle. She diverted her course and made a quick turn in my direction, racing right by me and into the legs of Rory. She tugged at his jeans and insisted, “Up! Up.”

Rory didn’t hesitate but reached down and scooped her up until she was propped against his chest.

The girl was adorable, with pale brown skin, a head full of dark beautiful curly hair, brown eyes, and a toothy grin.

But it was the sight of her in Rory’s arms which caused a stirring in my ovaries that made absolutely no sense. I had zero intentions of becoming a mother. Least of all with my hot neighbor, with whom I was trying to make thingslesscomplicated.

“Is daddy being ridiculous?” he asked, tickling the toddler’s belly.

She giggled, pushing away his hand, and Rory almostsmiled. His lips merely curled into a smirk, but it was the amusement in his blue eyes that made my stomach clench. It couldn’t be denied, this playful, affectionate version of him—regardless of how mild—made him that much more appealing.

“Sawyer, good to see you again!”

Graham, to my great relief, redirected my attention. In an instant, I was reminded of why it was I’d decided to join him at the bar the previous night. He wasn’t what I would call an attractive man, but that was part of his appeal. He had curly hair that was going gray, and a receding hairline that left him half bald. He was thin and lanky, but with a decent sense of style. The glasses he wore added to his nerdy flare, and the scruff on his face gave him a little edge. But it was his smile—broad and inviting—that was hard to ignore.

“Hi, Graham,” I greeted with a smile of my own.

“What have you got there? More treats?” he asked, pointing to the items I still held.

“Oh. Yeah. I brought snacks.”

“Thoughtful of you,” he said, reaching to free my hands. “That there’s my Daisy. Can you say hi, Daisy?”

I turned to catch another glimpse of the little one, and she smiled at me before hiding her face in Rory’s neck.

“She’s a bit shy at first, but she’ll warm up to you. Come in, come in. Maya’s in the kitchen.”

As I followed after Graham, I took a look around Rory’s spacious flat. It was as masculine and sophisticated as the man himself.

His decor wasindustrial chic—the brick walls and hardwood floors likely as old as the building itself. The layout of the flat was very open. To the left of the door was his living room. There was a mantel-less fireplace in the center of the far wall, his television mounted above it. On either side, and built into each corner, were floating, wooden bookshelves that were stocked full. He had a large, brown leather chesterfield sofa with a tufted back and a matching loveseat, both atop a spacious area rug that filled his living room. Hanging from the ceiling were large, exposed Edison light bulbs that filled the space with a warm glow—the setting sun doing little to light the place in spite of the wall of windows that stretched from one end of the flat to the other.

Just behind his living room was the kitchen. It had far more counter space than mine, with an island that served as a room divider. He had barstools lined along the back, but that wasn’t his only dining option. There was a table and chairs to the left of the kitchen, by the windows. Beyond the kitchen was a hallway, down which I guessed were the remaining rooms. His unit wasn’t two stories, like mine—though, he did have high ceilings with exposed wooden beams that added to the overall aesthetic.

“Hi, you must be Sawyer.”

I had to make a conscious effort to keep my jaw closed at the sight of the absolutely stunning woman who stood in the kitchen, arranging food on a platter. She was obviously of South Asian decent with perfect brown skin, huge green eyes, and long, thick, gorgeous black hair that fell in soft curls down her chest and back. One look at her and I knew she was the reason behind Graham’s smart sense of style. I also knew Graham must have had a heart of gold to win a woman like her. She wore a pair of fitted jeans and an oversized button-up top she wore tucked in at the front. It was effortlessly stylish but casual, accentuating her thin frame in the most modest way.

She wiped her hands on a nearby towel, smiling at me as she came to greet me with a handshake. “It’s so lovely to meet you. When Graham came home and told me about you, I was thrilled to find out you’d be here. It’s always nice to have another adult woman in the room. Lately, most of my conversations are with a two-year-old.”

Maya spoke in a proper British accent, which led me to assume she’d been raised in England.

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